


"mee-woh-ssh-ch"

by musicanova



Series: Barricade Boys AUs [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bahorel is scared of the dark, Blackouts, Fluff, Low-key crack, M/M, Storms, The electrical kind, Tutoring, Unnecessary bed-sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 21:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicanova/pseuds/musicanova
Summary: Miłość, or Bahorel is a terrible but eager student, ready to learn Polish, and Feuilly's just trying to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jezza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezza/gifts).



> In light of the terrible weather we've been having, have some Bromos?
> 
> As a note, it's set in Australia for no apparent reason but because I live here and since it was inspired by all the rain we've been having, um, here we are? Also, I have no knowledge of Polish whatsoever!
> 
> This is unbeta'd and has been written in basically one sitting with one break for dinner, so I have to apologise for any weird bits, and also the kind of... poorly-written ending.

Feuilly is sweating. 

Surprisingly enough, it's not because this entire year so far has consisted of 30-degree heat. 

He's pacing, brows furrowed as he stares at the five outfits sitting on his bed. 

 _This shouldn't be so hard_ , he thinks. It's not a date. It's not even a  _study_ date. It's a tutoring session that Feuilly is hosting at his house because he couldn't book a private room in the library in time. 

Feuilly walks towards the lime green chinos when his phone lights up. 

> _****❤︎❤︎❤︎** The One and Only Fabulous Jehan ❤︎❤︎❤︎ :** OH MY GOD DO NOT WEAR THOSE OFFENDING CHINOS _

Feuilly frowns down at his phone - how had Jehan known? 

> _****❤︎❤︎❤︎** The One and Only Fabulous Jehan  **❤︎❤︎❤︎** : **FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY YOU'VE GOT TO WEAR THE JEANS(TM)_
> 
> _****❤︎❤︎❤︎** The One and Only Fabulous Jehan  **❤︎❤︎❤︎** : **Sending you all my best wishes though! <3 <3_

With a reluctant sigh Feuilly picks up his jeans; the ones where the knees are ripped out and it looks like he had a bad skateboarding accident without wearing the proper protective gear, never mind the only remotely skateboard-like thing he's ever ridden is a ripstick. He supposes he should trust Jehan's words, there was a reason he had texted them about what to wear, but there's just something about the skinny, light wash jeans with their "trendy" patches that tells Feuilly he's going to look like an idiot.   

> _****❤︎❤︎❤︎** The One and Only Fabulous Jehan  **❤︎❤︎❤︎** : **I almost forgot_
> 
> _****❤︎❤︎❤︎** The One and Only Fabulous Jehan  **❤︎❤︎❤︎** : **Wear that scarf that matches those socks!_
> 
> _****❤︎❤︎❤︎** The One and Only Fabulous Jehan  **❤︎❤︎❤︎** : **Good luck bby pie _

He can't help but roll his eyes. Of course Jehan would suggest a scarf, the kid's entire wardrobe is made up of a collection of what's probably 200 scarves. He pulls the jeans on, followed by the socks Jehan was talking about, and then lingers before wrapping the scarf around his chest and snapping a picture of himself to send to Jehan, chubby tummy be damned. 

It's not his fault Jehan hadn't suggested a shirt for him to wear. 

> _****❤︎❤︎❤︎** The One and Only Fabulous Jehan  **❤︎❤︎❤︎** : **Um? I think parnasse is drooling what have you done to my boyf :( _
> 
> _****❤︎❤︎❤︎** The One and Only Fabulous Jehan  **❤︎❤︎❤︎** : **But we both think that shirt you wore at courfs birthday party last year is the way to go! _

The maroon button up had been a part of the outfits he was considering, so he lifts it from his bed and pulls it on, before shoving the rest of his rejected outfits back in the closet to deal with later. He looks at the scarf that's no longer wrapped around his chest, and wonders if it's weird if he ties it around his head so that it looks like he has bunny ears. It's definitely hot enough for him to be using a headband - the 30-degree heat is doing nothing to help the sweat that streams down his face in waterfalls. 

Okay, that's disgusting, but you get the point. He's already nervous, and the Goddamn Australian weather doesn't want to work in his favour. 

Feuilly rushes down the stairs with the scarf around his head, and halts when he finds his sister glued to the sofa, completely engrossed in the television as she drops crumbs of vegemite toast into her lap. 

"Mum what's - did you forget to take Nina to school? It's already 9:15!" he says, jogging into the kitchen. 

"How irresponsible of a parent do you think I am?" his mother replies, and he swears there is a snort from the general direction of his father. "Have you looked outside the window today, darling?" 

Feuilly shrugs half-heartedly. It's only kind of raining. Like, past the point of spitting, but not quite pouring. He tells his mother this. 

"Are you insane? Our phones have been blowing up with severe thunderstorm warnings all morning! All the schools are cancelled, and I suspect yours will be too. If it's not, then that's terribly unprofessional of your university and we will personally remove you from there to attend somewhere else because no one in their right minds would send someone outside today." 

"About that..." Feuilly starts. "I've kind of got someone coming over? I'm helping him with his Polish." 

When he looks outside the window, he thinks it's all bull. He can't count on his fingers the number of times he's received a severe thunderstorm warning and it hasn't even rained a single drop - as much as humans like to boast about how far they've come with technology, somehow weather predictions are always,  _always_ wrong. And today shouldn't be any different. It's just one normal, fine day where Feuilly is going to tutor someone in Polish, that guy will go home, and it'll still be 26 degrees at midnight because he lives in the bloody Sunshine State, but he'll live with that because this was the life he chose when his parents said "how about we look for a new beginning in France?" when he was seven, and he stupidly said no. 

 

By 10:32am it's starting to look like the weather prediction was actually correct for once, but at least Feuilly can happily say that the temperature's below thirty and he doesn't feel like dying. Except for the fact that all this rain makes it feel like perfect sweater weather, and yet here he is sweating like a pig in a short-sleeved shirt, unable to wear any of his favoured oversized hoodies. 

His student is two minutes late now, and Feuilly can't help but fiddle with his collar as he waits, trying to look casual as he sits on the edge of the armchair that's closest to the entrance of the house. Goodness knows what would happen if his parents picked up on how nervous he was; he can already imagine it. His mother would insist they all ate lunch together at the dining room table, then his father would poke his student with subtly suggestive questions until Feuilly would feel the overwhelming urge to spontaneously combust. 

So he meticulously wipes his hands on his jeans again, and sits, patient as the clock strikes 10:33. 

Despite the fact that he's been awaiting this boy's arrival for a full 33 minutes, Feuilly startles when the doorbell rings, tripping over one of Nina's Bratz dolls and dismembering her of a foot in the process. 

"Bahorel!" he says as he opens the door,  _far_ too cheerfully. "I-it's uh, it's nice to see you got here safely, c-considering the weather. Come on in." 

He thinks he sees his parents smirk at each other out of the corner of his eye, but he's too immersed in the thought of  _Bahorel _Bahorel_ _Bahorel_ _Bahorel__ that's thrumming through his mind to pay them any attention. 

"Just out of curiosity, what inspired you to learn Polish at uni?" Feuilly asks conversationally while leading Bahorel ( _Bahorel!_ ) up the stairs to his room. 

"Oh you know," the boy smiles. "It just seemed fun. I mean, that's how you learnt Polish, isn't it? Either that or I've been hearing really weird rumours around school." 

"Well yeah, I was fascinated with Poland when I was really small, so we all just up and learnt the language as a family," Feuilly responds with a light chuckle, hand coming up to play with the collar of his shirt again. "Would the rumour perhaps be about me being Poland-sexual? Because I swear - that's not true, and Courfeyrac is just ruthless when it comes to following through on bets." 

The name Courfeyrac seems to spark interest in Bahorel, and he shoots up. 

"Courf is the  _worst_ , don't make bets with him unless you know you're going to win them. Na przykład,"  _for example_ , Bahreol tries to say, "when you know him and Combeferre are head over heals for each other and you bet a year's worth of free pizzas whenever you want that they're going to end up in a relationship." 

Feuilly's a little taken aback by that. He knew they had a few overlaps in friends, but he hadn't realised Bahorel was this close to any of his mates. 

He has a sudden appreciation for how he's only ever whined about how hot Bahorel is to Jehan, and through Jehan, technically Montparnasse. 

"Well uh, let's- let's get started on that Polish then, shall we?" he pushes the door to his room open and pulls out a chair for Bahorel to sit in, perching himself on the edge of his desk. 

-«•»- 

See, here's the thing that Feuilly wants you to know about Bahorel. 

Bahorel is a walking God, Feuilly swears he's been buff since kindergarten. He wasn't, actually, but like, what kind of four-year-old was actually lean and not a chubby sack of potatoes? Not Feuilly, that's for sure. 

Feuilly can still remember that time when the older brother of one of his classmates had torn his drawing of a little piggy into fifteen, irreparable pieces while he had been waiting for his mother. Claquesous, he remembers, was the guy's name, and he had laughed so loudly as he'd ripped the artwork apart that Feuilly couldn't hear the sound of the paper tearing. But the most memorable thing about that day was not Claquesous' villainous laugh, it was how little, not-chubby-like-a-sack-of-potatoes Bahorel had come to save the day - the young boy had literally left a big, wet smooch on Feuilly's cheek, never mind the tears, and sat with him until his mother came to pick him up. 

The red-haired eighteen-year-old thinks it was that moment that he fell in love with Bahorel. And then from that point in time, he just kept finding reasons to dig himself into an even deeper hole. 

Bahorel playing cricket, Bahorel getting a maths equation wrong in front of the entire class, Bahorel singing terribly out of tune when he tried for the school's auditioned choir simply because Grantaire was too self-conscious to audition by himself even though he's the best singer in the school, Bahorel dissecting the cow heart in science so well that the teacher suggested he should become a cardiovascular surgeon, Bahorel tripping over someone's mandarin that had rolled onto the ground at lunch and having to walk around school with a massive orange stain on his shirt for the rest of the day, Bahorel with rice on his cheek after morning tea, Bahorel belly flopping into the pool because he can't dive for shit, Bahorel failing his surf life saving certificate, Bahorel singlehandedly winning the European handball match between his class and Feuilly's, Bahorel getting fake blood all over his school uniform in Forensics despite having an apron on... 

Wait, was there a point to this? 

Oh, right, Feuilly's kind of a little not really in love with Bahorel, and has been since he can remember. 

The worst part is though, he's had so many chances to get closer to Bahorel: they've had countless classes together, and they even have some of the same friends. And yet, here's Feuilly, sweating as if it's 35 degrees when it's only 26, never having spoken more than ten sentences to the guy in his life. 

Until now, that is, as he's trying to get Bahorel to  _not sound so bloody bogan_ as he pronounces his Polish phrases.

"Chciałbym jabłko," he repeats. 

"Fu-chell-bum yal-boo-kohw!" Bahorel says. 

"No, Chciałbym jabłko," he says again, slowly.

"Fu- you know what, Polish can go suck a dick. What's the point of creating a language if no one can pronounce it?" 

"Polish people can." 

Bahorel looks like he's about to come back with a retort when Feuilly's mother calls for the two of them. 

"Feuilly darling it's already 1:30! Are you not going to have any lunch?" she yells. 

Now Feuilly doesn't want to be rude or disrespectful but he was  _really_ hoping his mum wouldn't do this to him because he's almost certain she's going to try and "promote how wonderful my son is! Look at him, isn't he adorable, wouldn't you want him to be yours?" 

-«•»- 

Lunch is eerily calm, much to Feuilly's dismay. The lack of too-personal questions is concerning, and it almost feels like his parents are plotting against him for something worse. 

And then it hits him in the face like as if he's standing in the middle of a bare-knuckled boxing match. 

"Bahorel, dear, is that how you say your name? I really don't advise you trying to go home in this weather. I don't know where you live, but even if we were to drive you, it would be incredibly unsafe for all of us, and we don't want to be held responsible for any accidents when you could stay safe here." 

Well.

Shit. 

-«•»- 

"We should take a break, Bahorel, we've been going at this for hours now, the human brain can't handle that much information at once and it needs time to soak in what you've learnt," Feuilly says, sliding off his desk, careful not to take Bahorel's textbook with him as he goes. 

In reality, he just really  _really_ needs a breather from spending so much time with the love of his life. 

"Oh, cool," Bahorel smiles. "I'm just gonna make a couple of calls then."

He then steps out and into the corridor, as far away from Feuilly's bedroom as he can get, while Feuilly himself just flops onto bed and closes his eyes for a moment.

Bahorel texts his mother, telling her that he's safe and sound, and won't come home until tomorrow when the rain's calmed down. 

Then, he lifts his phone to his ear and waits for Courfeyrac to pick up. 

"I hate you so much," he says, as soon as the other responds to the call. "Why did I let you convince me to take Polish?" 

Courfeyrac cackles. "It was your idea to begin with, since you're so obsessed with Feuilly." 

"Listen, I know I may have mentioned it once, just to try and get closer to him, but I wasn't _actually_ going to take Polish! Also, I didn't think I'd be so shite at it, for God's sake we've been working for hours and I still sound like I've never heard the language before! How am I supposed to impress him when I legit need his help?" 

He huffs a sigh when the only response he receives is more laughter, and then Courfeyrac saying "Grantaire, get Enjolras, you've all gotta hear Bahorel's sob story!". He needs new friends, and better impulse control because he's so close to flushing his phone down the toilet. 

He turns on his heel to head back to Feuilly's room, when he's met with a face full of middle-aged woman boobage. 

"Mrs- um, Magdalie!" Bahorel exclaims, plastering the biggest smile on his face. He remembers very vividly the stern look he'd received when he had tried to refer to her with her surname. "You make me feel so old! It's either you call me Magdalie or 'hey you'!" she'd said over lunch.

"My sweet, baby darling," the woman coos, arms coming around to circle Bahorel and engulf him. "Do you like my son?" 

"W-w-what?"

Damn. That didn't sound very confident. 

"Don't worry, Bahorel. We're on your side," she winks, then saunters off to wherever she had been heading to when she'd stumbled across Bahorel's phone call from hell. Or  _to_ hell, considering he was the one that called Courfeyrac. 

He returns to the bedroom to find Feuilly fast asleep, sprawled across the bed with Bahorel's textbook over his chest. 

He can't help but smile at that; he can't imagine how much of a trouble student he must be to Feuilly, what with his terrible pronunciation and knack for not being able to retain any knowledge. He pulls his phone out despite himself, and smiles softly as he takes a picture of Feuilly's sleeping form before he takes a finger to prod at his arm in an attempt to wake him up. It's cute, and he doesn't want to disturb him from his peaceful nap, but it's 4:30 in the afternoon, and if he sleeps too much now, Feuilly'll be buzzing all the way until 4 in the morning - and if Bahorel's staying the night, he can't have his life-long crush watching over him as he sleeps. 

Feuilly blinks slowly as he awakes, then jolts up all too suddenly, lips hitting Bahorel's ear in the process. 

"God, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to fall asleep, I promise, I just had a rough night last night and I..." 

"Hey, it's okay, it's what we took a break for, right? Do you have any movies or something? Maybe it's time we stopped trying and failing to get me to learn Polish," Bahorel hushes Feuilly, proud of his speedy recovery after having had his ear kissed. 

He can't say that's something he's fantasised about, but he'll definitely dream about it now. 

-«•»- 

Dinner is timely, Feuilly's father calling that he's just finished roasting the vegetables as the credits start to roll.

Having dinner at 5:45 is a little disorientating for Bahorel, but then and again he doesn't have a six-year-old little sister whose piggy tails bounce every time she turns her head. 

That gets him thinking about his own sister wearing piggy tails, and he almost chokes on his food, horrified of the image of a woman in her mid-twenties who dresses like some kind of goth sloth wearing little piggy tails with pink, glittery baubles. 

"Now, about sleeping arrangements tonight," Magdalie chirps. "Bahorel, you'll obviously be taking Feuilly's bed, because we can't have a guest sleeping on the couch. It's not even a sofa bed! Not to mention you're taller than my son, so it will be more uncomfortable for you." 

"Oh Magdalie, I couldn't," Bahorel tries to say, but the entire family is against him. 

"Nonsense!" they all scream at once.

"Bahorel, please, take my bed," Feuilly says. And well, if it's Feuilly telling him to do so, how can Bahorel say no? 

Feuilly reaches for his glass of water in a futile attempt at drowning out the blush that he knows is slowly creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. Just the thought of Bahorel sleeping on his bed is enough for him to faint, but now it's a _reality_. 

By 7:00pm Feuilly is fresh out of the shower and in his pyjamas, no thanks to Nina spilling her orange juice all over his crotch. 

"These are a little big for me, so I think you might fit them," he gives a small smile as he hands a pair of never-worn pyjamas over. His mother had bought them for him when she was convinced he would still grow, but she was painfully wrong, and the pyjamas taunt him even now, two years later. 

 

At 7:15, the lights flicker out, accompanied by a blood-curdling scream coming from the shower, and Feuilly scrambles for his mobile phone amidst the darkness before running for the bathroom. 

"Bahorel? Bahorel, I'm coming in!" he yells, relieved when he finds the door hasn't been locked. 

"Oh my God, no I'm naked, don't do that!" is the response Feuilly receives, but it's too late. Bahorel is on the ground, huddled in the corner and dripping with water, and Feuilly sets his phone down on the counter before reaching for a towel and draping it over the boy, careful not to look at his body. 

Bahorel mutters incoherently over and over as he rocks back and forth, and somehow Feuilly feels like the shivering isn't caused from his lack of clothing. 

"Are you afraid of the dark?" Feuilly asks slowly, softly, approaching Bahorel by shuffling across the floor. The blackout was unexpected, but he hadn't thought it would induce this sort of reaction from the boy opposite him. 

"A little, maybe," is the mumbled response, and Feuilly wants to cry over how different and small the boy seems, curled up on the ground.

"Here," he passes over the fresh clothing. "I'll leave my phone in here for light, and I'll be right outside the door. You just get changed, and then we can go to bed, hey?" 

When he exits the bathroom, he finds his family looking guilty, drawing back quickly in an effort to not look like they were eavesdropping. 

"It seems like you've got this under control," his father smiles. "Goodnight, son." 

He watches his parents walk away, and wishes them goodnight before the bathroom door opens to reveal Bahorel, shaking like a leaf. 

"Take my hand," he whispers, twining their fingers together. "Focus on the light coming from my phone." 

When he'd agreed to tutor the boy beside him in Polish, Feuilly had never imagined  _this_. 

-«•»- 

Feuilly tucks Bahorel firmly into his bed, covers pulled right up to his chin before he turns to leave, until he's stopped by a hand on his pant leg. In hindsight, he should have seen this coming. His room is pitch black, there isn't even the comfort of street lamps filtering into his room, but somehow he had hoped that Bahorel would be okay enough for Feuilly to not have his heart stuck in his throat all night. 

"Stay. Please?"

Bahorel's voice is so hoarse, and the effect it has on Feuilly is instantaneous. It's almost pitiful how quickly the red-head dives into bed just at those words, wrapping an arm around him, and using his free hand to stroke through the other's hair. 

"If you need me, I'll be right here. I always sleep like a rock, so I have faith that you can do the same, no matter how dark it is." 

It elicits the response he wants, which is to make the boy laugh, and already Feuilly can feel Bahorel start to become drowsy in his arms. 

After a few more minutes of him playing with the strands of his hair, Bahorel mumbles a sleepy "mmk, love you", which is quickly followed by a soft snore. 

"I love you too," Feuilly whispers into the darkness of his room before he can stop himself. 

This is all dangerously domestic, and it's hurting his heart, because as much as he would love for the now-sleeping boy's words to be true, he can tell they were just a mistake, something that Bahorel probably says on auto-pilot, thinking that Feuilly's his mother or something. 

Despite all that, it's startlingly easy for him to fall asleep with someone in his arms. 

-«•»- 

Breakfast is a hot mess the next morning. 

When Feuilly wakes up, Bahorel is snuggled tightly into his chest, his feet poking out of the covers and off the bed because of how tall he is. But that's not the problem. The problem is, he remembers leaving his door ajar last night, and when he hears a foreign shuffle in his room from above him, he fears the worst: his mother frozen mid-pose having a ball taking photographs of her son sleeping with a boy wrapped up in his arms. 

The problem is, though, Feuilly knows that it only gets worse from here on out. 

"So, did you boys sleep well last night?" she asks over breakfast, throwing mischievous glances at her husband.

"Wonderfully, 'hey you'," Bahorel smiles around a piece of toast.  

Unfortunately, Feuilly is unable to document the rest of the hot mess, because his brain short-circuits at Bahorel's terrible joke, and after that he's just praying to God no one notices he's got his knife and his fork in the wrong hands as he's trying to eat breakfast like a calm, nonplussed, normal person. He will say though, there's a lot of poorly-contained blushes, nervous laughter, and one comment of "oh I do hope you'll marry our son, dear". 

 

When the two return to Feuilly's bedroom, Bahorel closes the door behind him with a stern look on his face. 

"I have something I need to say to you." 

Feuilly has the worst feeling in his stomach, and he swallows the saliva that quickly builds up before nodding. He's been dreading this ever since last night. Maybe Bahorel had said "love you" last night to test Feuilly. Maybe he'd known about his crush all along and was using it to taunt him. Maybe...

"I... don't really know how to say this?" he cracks a smile, but it does nothing to help the dread that floods Feuilly. "But I uh, I mee-woh-ssh-ch you?" 

Feuilly swears his heart stops. This isn't what he was expecting at all; he's ready for the gates to Heaven to open up and accept him.

"I think the word you're trying to say is miłość, you're a terrible student." 

After a moment of silence, he continues. 

"But um, też cię kocham," he says shyly, looking up at Bahorel through his lashes, a little too embarrassed to meet his eye. He can't believe this is happening, it's all too fast for him to comprehend. 

"What does that mean?" he asks, suddenly too close to Feuilly for him to be able to handle. 

"I love you too," he answers, breathless. "Every since kindy, actually. You were my knight in shining armour, I suppose." 

"Shit, are you saying we have fourteen years worth of kisses to catch up on?" Bahorel laughs, a hair's breadth away from Feuilly's lips. 

Feuilly hums. "Mmm, better get started now." 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment or kudos if you liked it. 
> 
> If anyone has read any of my other stuff, yes I am guilty of making Bahorel afraid of the dark again. It's starting to become a personal headcanon... I don't know how many people are in both fandoms, but this is a sort of apology fic for the lack of updates with [Artificial Love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8860426/chapters/20318047). All I'm gonna say is though, at least I know Artificial Love will actually be to some standard since it's beta'd, whereas this trash...


End file.
